I NEED a wife, not a house husband. I’ve had two of those and they didn’t work out, but that’s another story.
Single, working mothers the world over know what I mean and men with a wife at home need reminding just how good they’ve got it.
It’s hard enough juggling the competing demands of work, children and home with the support of a partner, but solo parenting is an incredibly tough gig.
There is no respite from the daily grind as a single working parent.
From the moment my youngest wakes about 5.30am it’s go, go, go, often until midnight.
Each day usually starts and ends with a nappy change.
I shouldn’t have to spell out the analogy of this, except to say it rhymes with pretty and isn’t.
After the first nappy, the following 16, 17 or 18 hours are punctuated with work and a variety of mundane tasks undertaken at the speed of light.
Showering and dressing are two such tasks, and most days you’ll find me putting my make-up on in the car park.
But, I’m jumping ahead of myself, again.
Before leaving the house there are breakfasts to be conjured from the pantry, beds to be made, a load or two of washing, and a general tidy up before my saintly parents arrive to babysit.
My parents are another story, suffice to say I’d be lost without Mum and Dad.
They’ve ditched their overseas holiday plans and come out of leisurely retirement to help me raise the girls.
Yes, there are three of them and for future reference, I’ll call them MM1, MM2 and MM3. Ditto more stories.
If I had a wife, my life would be so different.
A cup of tea in bed in the morning, perhaps some toast or muffins.
I could rise at 7ish, take an uninterrupted shower, read the newspaper with another cuppa, kiss the kids, and head to work about 8.30am, hair brushed and make up on.
With a wife, I could focus entirely on my important newspaper work for the intermittent eight or nine hours before heading home to happy kids and a hot meal.
Instead, it’s a mad dash via the supermarket (or takeaway) and home to frazzled parents who baton pass MM2 and MM3 on their way to the front door.
I don’t blame them, of course. Their days are long too, full of nappies, tantrums, and kinder runs.So, as they back down the drive, Part III of my daily odyssey begins.
By the time I get home, Mum has usually fed MM3, so it’s only MM1 (the grumbing uni student) and MM2 I need to worry about . . . and me.
But balancing preparing a meal with a preschooler’s desire to play with mummy or provide a recap of the day’s events and activities is always an emotional tug-o-war.
A wife would have all this sorted, the kids fed and out of the way, so I could dine in peace.
After dinner, I would recline on the couch to watch the 7.30 Report.
She’d be clearing the dishes and have bath time on the go.
Bedtime - oh joy - and that final nappy change would be a breeze, too. My wife would do it.
Before she hits the sack, she’d iron my clothes and pack a healthy lunch for the next day.
Occasionally, with plenty of notice, she could have a night out with the girls.
I could do what the wife does.
No problems. Sure. For a night . . .
I don’t have a wife. If you do, lucky you!
- SUSAN MASTERS is The Advertiser’s News Editor.
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